


Pillow Fort

by Bonniemary



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-09-27 18:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonniemary/pseuds/Bonniemary
Summary: Two agents in Eastern Europe know how to have fun between missions.(sticky-sweet story about love, duty and spies)





	Pillow Fort

**Author's Note:**

> A really big thanks to [ Seriousmindedgeek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Seriousmindedgeek) who was my awesome beta and to [ Vanda_Kirkova ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanda_Kirkova) who helps a lot.

It was raining in Warsaw, cold and nasty, not typical for springtime rain. Ilsa changed in the airport bathroom, took off her black wig and elegant coat. Instead, she put on a dark beanie, jeans, a pullover, and left her high heels for battered trainers. After that, she shoved the folder with documents into her backpack and walked away from the airport merging with other passengers from the Milan flight.

On her way into the parking lot, some guy wearing stained overalls pushed Ilsa, grunted ‘my apologies’, and vanished into thin air. Ilsa dug into her windbreaker's pocket only to find some kind of hard, rounded object. On her way to the car, she examined it using her fingers, but to no avail.

This time, her transport was a dull gray Volkswagen: this car had seen some serious shit since having left the conveyor. Scratches and dents made it nearly invisible among other cars.

Ilsa got behind the wheel and, after some hesitation, reached out for the package she had extracted previously. It was quite a thick folder with the Italian press attaché file. That poor bastard was seriously interested in sponsoring and aiding terrorism. But not for much longer, if she could stop it. Ilsa put the package on the seat next to her, and then fished out her new acquisition – a compact, indeed; she didn’t realize it until now! – and opened it. She stared at the powder with irritation: the tone was two shades darker. Bollocks, they'd better do their homework next time!

Ilsa brought the compact closer to her face, still frowning. She pressed the inconspicuous button, and the device came to life sending a beam of light inside her eyes to scan her retina and confirm her identity. The reflection rippled turning the compact mirror into a screen.

The message was annoyingly laconic: Ilsa Faust, should she choose to accept this mission, must proceed at once to the point in the city center, acquire the package, and take it to Krakow. After that, in a safe house, she must wait for instructions regarding place and time of transferring all collected material.

It seemed this journey would take a while. Bummed, Ilsa was hoping to get a couple days off for massage and spa treatments somewhere in the Czech mountains after the file transfer!

She started the engine, and sped up the car but immediately slowed down in front of a descending gate arm. Ilsa’s eyebrows almost met her hairline. Bewildered, she couldn't get a good view of a man opening the Volkswagen trunk and putting something that looked like a duffle bag inside. Ilsa wasn't sure about it. Without missing a beat, the man slammed the trunk shut and walked away while the gate arm slowly went up freeing the passway.

Well, now she just had to hope that IMF sanctioned all of this, and that inside the duffle bag, there was some sort of useful things, and not 10 pounds of explosives. In certain situations, however, depending on the perspective, explosives could also be very useful…

Ilsa drove onto the highway, checking the map on the round mirror-screen – the compact powder case worked as a GPS, too. The city was closer than she remembered. Her car whooshed past the police patrol, but they just phlegmatically ignored her. Was that the common way here…?

She found the right place in less then 10 minutes. It was inconspicuous crossroad surrounded by low-rise brown buildings. She parked on the side of one road and looked around without much curiosity. It was still drizzly; wipers squeaked and smearing dirt on the glass rather than actually cleaning the water. Street lights came on, amber yellow in the dark: the day was almost over.

Ilsa was hungry; she really needed a shower, and could slept right through till morning. All in that particular order. However, she still had three hours to drive before she reached Krakow, and the package was already overdue. She wondered who would be a delivery guy…

Ilsa never noticed where he came from when suddenly no other than Ethan Hunt himself, wet and disheveled, landed on the passenger seat, and yelled before he had a chance to close the door shut,

“Move, move, move, get us out of here!”

He didn't have to ask twice. Ilsa caught his gaze, mad and absolutely frantic, as usual. She turned the car around and slammed the accelerator, leading them away from the center and due south.

“What are you doing here?” Ethan blurted out instead of greeting. Then he muttered under his breath, “Everything is okay, Benji, transport came on schedule, I got the flash drive, there is nothing to worry about! Of course, the software was great, and you did great, genius as always, but I need to hurry up, talk to you later, bye!”

He took the earpiece out, stripped off his dirty torn suit jacket. Under his jacket, there was a dark blue shirt, wet like the rest of his clothes. Ethan turned and looked at Ilsa.

“I’m taking the package!” she said, checking for a possible pursuit in the rearview mirror. But whoever was the pursuer, they weren’t ready for a car chase, or maybe just quickly lost them in a night-time rush hour traffic.

“Are you going to Krakow, too?”

“Well, yes, I think so…” Ethan replied, slightly confused.

“Shouldn't you be in Guatemala right now? I thought you would have work there for another two weeks!”

“I was there,” Ethan said. He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back on the seat. Then flinched and sat upright immediately. “Just two days ago.”

“But Warsaw!” Ilsa was surprised. At least, he didn’t ask how she knew about his movements – everyone could have their own secrets. “Seriously, that sounds like some kind of a horrible cliché. Please don’t tell me your mission is related with the German delegation!”

Ethan said nothing. Ilsa snorted, shook her head and repeated again. “In Warsaw! In this Capital of Espionage! I couldn’t think of anything worse!”

“But you are here right now,” Ethan noticed. “And for what purpose?”

“I have delivered the bloody file of the bloody press attaché! You’re sitting on it, by the way,” Ilsa said. Then, she frowned at Ethan and slowed down the car a little bit.

Ethan jumped on his seat, pulled out a plastic folder and stared at it in shock.

“Don’t say a word,” commanded Ilsa, but it was too late.

“It’s on paper. Like, literally paper!”

“That’s the way it should be!”

“Was it not you who just talked about Warsaw, the Capital of Espionage? The spy cliché? You, who smuggled an antiquity, I dunno, rarity, vintage – the case file on paper? How’d you get across the border? How’d they let you into this country? You didn’t declare The Manuscript? And customs didn't stop you?”

“They didn't,” Ilsa said. She snatched the folder out of his hand and threw it on the back seat. Ilsa tried her best not to break into a smile, to play it cool. It took all her willpower.

“So, we’re going to Krakow,” Ethan declared and shifted in his seat. He smelled like rain, gunpowder, and blood. The last one wasn't good.

“Are you hurt?” Ilsa asked, but the timing was bad. Ethan didn’t have a chance to answer – her compact powder case blew up with a little ‘pop’. Then, the smoke started coming.

“What was it?!”

Ethan stared in shock at the smoking thing.

“Made in China, all fake,” Ilsa answered. She opened the window and threw the used device on the road. “Come on, are you hurt or not?”

Ethan paused for a few seconds, then reluctantly admitted,

“Just a scratch.”

Well, all right. Ilsa kept looking straight ahead at the road, avoiding looking at Hunt, and then declared,

“I'm actually pretty bad at stitching. I suck at embroidery, can’t do either satin-stitch, or cross-stitch, but I can knit! Only with knits and purls! Once, I knitted a scarf as a gift!”

“It’s not that bad,” Ethan mumbled with caution. “I think I can handle it.”

“As you wish,” Ilsa nodded. “Just remember – no embroidery!”

“Okay,” he humbly agreed.

They drove in silence for the next few kilometers. Ilsa wondered how pissed, on a scale from one to ten, Ethan would get if she asked him to run away with her. Rent a house somewhere in the Tatra Mountains and indulge in a sexual debauchery.

Or else, at least, they could get enough sleep and rest.

He would definitely get pissed, no less than twelve. Ilsa glanced at Ethan and saw him watching her stealthily. He should've known he wouldn't outspy her.

“Let’s stop at the next gas station, if you don’t mind,” Ethan suggested, pretending to be totally engrossed in а dashboard watching.

“I could use a coffee,” Ilsa agreed. Usually, she preferred tea, but life on the road had been wearing her down, so she needed some kind of an energy booster.

“Great, let’s stop and I’ll take the wheel!” Ethan said.

Ilsa flinched.

“No way. I saw you driving.”

“You don’t trust me?” he looked really wounded. “We’re not in a rush this time!”

“It’s for now,” Ilsa muttered and waved in the direction of the road. “There’re already enough crazy drivers!”

“I’m a very careful driver, ask anyone!” Ethan sounded upset. “I mean, just ask Benji! We can ask him together, if you want!” He picked his suit jacket, trying to find the earpiece, but Ilsa shook her head.

“How many years you’ve known each other? He’s immune!”

“Luther?” Ethan never seemed to give up. He fidgeted with his jacket and decided to put it on again.

“Huh!” Ilsa rolled her eyes. “Luther was born to cover your arse!”

“Ilsa,” he said sadly, “you’re killing me!”

“No, not even started,” she replied pointedly. Ethan gave her another amazed look.

Ilsa wasn’t sure the direction his thoughts took, but Ethan didn’t utter a word until they stopped at the gas station. There was a small roadside store with basic goods to their right and even smaller café to their left, all flooded with electric lights like a shining pool in darkness. The rain stopped, thankfully, but the sky was still overcast.

They got out of the car; and next thing Ilsa knew was Ethan wrapping his arms around her.

“Finally.”

He wasted no time for unnecessary words or questions; he just leaned forward and pressed his lips against Ilsa’s. It felt so important, so urgent, and so natural. Ilsa closed her eyes and dug her fingers into Ethan’s shirt. The kiss was desperate, wild, and hard; their tongues twined together, hot and soft. Ethan cupped her cheeks with his palms and explored Ilsa’s mouth, tangling his tongue against hers and dragging it over the roof of her mouth, firmly but gently. He smelled awesome, and he tasted awesome; it was too much for Ilsa, her whole body hummed with need. When Ethan stopped, she leaned back against the car, holding on to something solid and steady, and caught her breath. The air was too cold against the heat of their bodies; but it didn’t make her skin even a little cooler.

Ethan pulled away, his face flushed and pupils dilated.

“Was it too fast?” he asked guiltily.

“You waited too long,” Ilsa growled in return. She reached for Ethan with her right hand and curled her fingers into the short hair on the back of his head. She forced him to lean closer, sought for his mouth again, parted his lips, and slipped her tongue inside his warmth.

Ethan grunted in surprise.

Well, what did he expect?

It was nearly two months since the last time they saw each other; Ilsa had no idea how she managed to survive this long. Two years almost destroyed her, but now, when her relationship with Ethan had passed through the invisible barrier between friendship and something more intimate, things got a whole lot worse, with time and distance working against them.

Ilsa tried to tell Ethan all of this with her touch, with one simple kiss, but she obviously failed. Maybe because he was the first to make the confession? He threw all his usual caution to the wind; he didn’t try to stop her with the words of duty and responsibility, there was only one thing he tried to tell her by showing how much he missed her. And he did miss her, really bad.

It was both very pleasant and very stunning. Ilsa wasn’t prepared to this. She opened her eyes and found Ethan, who was still kissing her, but looking at something behind her back, somewhere upwards.

“Cameras?” she whispered.

“Yep,” he murmured into her lips. “One on the east corner, second on the southwest.”

Ilsa took a deep breath. She dropped her arms, moved away from Ethan, and rearranged her beanie. Then she sighed again.

“Well, let’s behave ourselves, like two good spies.”

Ethan gave her a wry smile as apology.

Before entering the café, Ilsa put the case file into her backpack and decided to examine the car trunk. There was her stuff in one bag; she found it after a quick check; but contents of the second bag made her raise her eyebrows: she saw men’s clothes there.

“I think that’s not my size…”

“Great, I’m going to change!” Ethan took the duffle bag and headed to the bathroom. On his way there, he turned around and said, “Just order me a cappuccino, okay?”

So that was what Ilsa did. She ordered a big cappuccino for Ethan, a double espresso for herself, and some local pastries for both of them, a little cold but still edible. By the time Ethan came back, wearing dark jeans, a sweater and a windbreaker, Ilsa had already ended her _bułka _and looked at next one.

“What time does your meeting start?” Ethan asked, making himself comfortable on a stool opposite Ilsa. There was no one else in the café but the two of them and the sleepy waitress who could barely tear her eyes off her phone, while yawning all the time.

“I have no idea,” Ilsa said and shrugged. “Probably, they’ll inform me about it later, using an eyeshadow palette. Or maybe, a blush.”

Ethan took a sip of his cappuccino and stared at her blankly.

“Uh, whatever!” Ilsa shook her head. “And where do you want me to take you?”

“I have no idea, either,” Ethan replied in almost the exact same tone. “I still haven’t received any instructions.”

Ilsa snorted loudly.

“You know, you could’ve long given instructions by yourself. To agents like me.”

“Why?” he was genuinely surprised.

“Well, I dunno, maybe because it’s much safer?

“Boring,” Ethan bit half of his bun, chewed it, and looked snarky at Ilsa.

“How about less unnecessary problems? Less concerns, and lesser risk?

“And boring,” he nodded. “If I operated from the office, as Brandt required, you and me, we would hardly had this excellent opportunity to meet here, in Warsaw.”

Well, he had a point. However, the pleasure was a little dubious. Ilsa reached out and touched the fresh bruise on Ethan’s cheek. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, indeed. At least, they could sit and chat like this, not thinking about every moment they had already lost.

“I would find you even in the office,” Ilsa promised gently.

Ethan examined her face for a few seconds, then stuffed the rest of the _bułka_ into his mouth_, _finished his coffee and rose from the table. He grabbed Ilsa’s hand and pulled her out, ignoring all the secrecy.

“Safe house! We need a safe house! It’s an emergency!”

***

The safe house in Krakow stood on a quiet street near riverfront with a trademark view of the Wawel Castle. It was almost midnight when Ilsa stepped onto the pavement wet from rain. She yawned and stretched her whole body, numb after a long trip. Anyway, there was nobody around.

Ethan ultimately took his turn behind the wheel and raced the car for the last 100 km as if it was a nuclear attack situation. Ilsa wondered to herself what if her package was more important than she’d originally expected? She tried to ask Ethan about contents of his flash drive, and he willingly filled her in on the dull accounting data that might end careers for a few politicians.

However, there was nothing dangerous or exploding, nothing that could be a ticking bomb, literally or metaphorically.

“I just want to get it done, so what?” Ethan blinked innocently, but Ilsa knew she didn’t believe him.

Thus, they finally got there.

Ethan took a key out of a mailbox and went upstairs. On the top floor, he opened the door to the loft. Elsa looked inside and wondered,

“Whoa, no security system?”

“Do you see anything of value?” He walked through the rooms and turned the light on. “Wow, we even have some food in the fridge!.. Do you want a sandwich, maybe?”

“Nope. I don’t want to eat.”

Ilsa leaned against the wall near the entrance to the big kitchen-living room and looked at Ethan in anticipation. He wasn’t dumb, nor blind, he should have figured it out! She was no longer starving, the café snacks did their job, but a different type of her hunger wasn’t satisfied yet.

“How about some green tea?” he failed his second try.

Ilsa rolled her eyes.

“It’s just me or you’re stalling?”

“I’m only trying to be polite,” he snapped as he continued rummaging on through the kitchen cabinets. “Near-bear with, uh… hmm… raspberry juice?”

“I don’t want to drink either.”

“Okay,” Ethan left the food and walked over to Ilsa. He put the nervous smile on his face; it was strange because when he kissed her at the gas station a couple of hours ago, Ethan wasn’t concerned at all. “I’ve been thinking I need to set the right…”

Ilsa slowly took off her windbreaker and threw it on the floor. The beanie was next, and Ilsa shook her loose hair.

“…mood” Ethan barely mumbled. Then he grimaced, still keeping a close eye on Ilsa. “Why can’t we have a nice dinner?”

It was more like a rhetorical question. Ilsa shrugged and sat on the table. She took off her pullover, leaving only her jeans and lace bra. She dangled her feet a little to kick her trainers off.

“Come here.”

They definitely wasted their time. Ilsa trusted the unexpected break in their timetable no more she trusted her former handler in MI6. But it seemed Ethan decided that they had a whole week off, while he himself had all the time in the world just to stand there, staring at her, acting like he had never seen Ilsa stripping for him before. Or maybe, he had forgotten it over the last two months.

“Come here,” Ilsa repeated and, when he finally came closer to her, she grabbed his jacket with both hands, pulled him closer, and kissed. It was her turn to manhandle him around, after all. She felt so good with her tongue stuck inside his mouth and her legs wrapped his waist.

Ilsa hurriedly freed Ethan from his windbreaker, but when she pulled at his sweater, he suddenly hissed in pain.

“You’re such a knob! I asked you about your injuries!”

“And I said: just a scratch!” Ethan tried to protest, but still took his clothes off. Ilsa frowned at the badly dressed wound on his shoulder, and went looking for the first aid kit.

A good quarter of an hour, a few stitches, and countless swearing later, Ilsa cleaned up and redressed his wound – the gunshot, for fuck's sake! Despite her earlier mocks and refusals, she had no choice.

“Next time, you’d better tell me if you get shot!” Ilsa begged when she cleared the table from all the bloodstained bandages. “It will save us a shitload of time!”

“Like you and Benji did in Kashmir?” he asked very quietly. “Because you both hid your bruises from me, you didn’t even bother to mention that Lane tried to kill both of you!”

“Ooh!” she rolled her eyes. “Don’t even start!”

It wasn’t the first time when Ethan tried to initiate this conversation, and until now, she managed to change the subject somehow. But today, nothing came to her mind: the day was too long, and she was too tired to start another argument.

Ethan made a small, soft noise, then took Ilsa by the hand and sat her on the table again. He moved closer and kissed her: slowly, leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world. And Ilsa believed him; for some reason, she always wanted to believe him, even if it was foolish and reckless.

He cupped her right breast and began gently stroking her nipple through a thin fabric with his thumb. Ethan went down her spine with his other hand, settled between her shoulder blades, and tried to unhook her bra. He struggled with the clasp for so long that Ilsa almost got bored, but finally, he won. Ilsa grabbed Ethan by the waistband and unzipped his pants, but he lured her away with kisses. Again. He moved to her neck as if trying to count all of her freckles; his tongue touched the little dip between her clavicles.

Ilsa couldn’t hold it any longer; she groaned, and wrapped her legs tightly around him, pressing her inner thighs against his pelvis.

Everything around them became insignificant. As if the whole world faded, giving way to rich and painfully thrilling sensations.

There was just Ethan bending over Ilsa, his mouth on her breasts, gentle but persistent. There was Ilsa squirming and gasping under Ethan, feeling his dick inside her burying deeper and deeper with each thrust.

She clung to Ethan, fearing to let go of him even for a second, but then caught herself when remembered about his wounded shoulder, and laid back on the table. So bloody hard and uncomfortable table, the most beautiful and durable table in all Poland.

If they broke this fucking table, would IMF take it out of their paycheck?..

But who cared now? Nevermind, he just had to keep moving because she was so close, she couldn’t hold it anymore…

As though reading her mind, Ethan brought his mouth to Ilsa’s, and kissed her. He didn’t try hard; there was none of his usual diligence, but a lovely awkwardness. He was out of breath, with his sweaty hair, with his gaze searching for her eyes in a silent question. A long time ago, Ilsa had decided that she preferred this version of him more than his usual self.

These thoughts echoed inside of her body with pleasant shivers. Ilsa arched her back as every muscle pulled taut, then the climax blazed through her, burning outward to every part of her body.

Ilsa sobbed, not realizing at first she did it out loud, as if her voice belonged to someone else. But why did she cry if what she felt was good?

Ethan mumbled something inaudible but comforting in response, reached out, and brushed the lock of her hair away from Ilsa’s eyes. Then he buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and stood still.

They stayed like this for quite a while.

***

Ilsa woke up to daylight; her inner alarm set off as usual, not once failing. But right now, right here, it was truly unfair.

She spent about 30 seconds in bed, trying to find the clock with her eyes – Ilsa spotted it yesterday before she fell asleep. Finally, she found it on the nightstand. It was inappropriately early, only 5 past 5 in the morning. There was no need to rush, and besides, they both, she and Ethan, hadn’t received any new instructions. So, an unscheduled vacation? How could something like this even be happening?

Ilsa did her best trying to move as quiet as possible; she sat up, put her feet on the floor, and slipped out from under the blankets. She didn’t even turn around on her way out, no matter how much she wanted to.

According to a tacit agreement concluded in their first night together, she and Ethan shared a bed, each on their own side.

That was the third time. Anniversary of sorts, you could say.

Ilsa sneaked into the bathroom, turned on the water and took the longest shower in her life. It seemed not a big deal yesterday, but today she intended to use every free second wisely.

She forced herself to relax, to move slowly, and to take her time. She wasn’t late for anything, no one was after her, and therefore, she took her own shampoo and hair balsam, lathered and washed her hair as slowly and carefully as she wanted.

After the shower, Ilsa put on a white, terry bathrobe. It seemed as if some nameless technicians made sure that safe house looked more like a 4-star hotel than a shelter for cold and hungry nameless and homeless spies. Although, Ethan warmed her up pretty well last night…

Trying not to break into a smile, Ilsa picked up her pullover from the floor in the living room, jeans in the hallway, and returned to the bedroom looking for her underwear. Suddenly, she found a very awake Ethan there.

“Bloody hell!” she blurted.

“And good morning to you, too,” he pulled his hand out from underneath the blanket and patted on the mattress. “A very early morning.”

“I didn't want to wake you up.” Ilsa hesitated for a second, then dropped all the clothes she gathered, and crawled into the bed. Ethan grabbed her left arm, pulled her close and pressed his lips to Ilsa’s palm. He made a low, humming sound, sending chills down her spine.

“Smells good. What's this?”

“Hand lotion with camomile. I have to take care of my skin!”

“Huh…” he frowned, then looked as if trying to analyze a serious situation or solve an important problem. “What else you’ve got?”

So, the situation here was more complicated than Ilsa would imagine. Ethan rolled closer to her, buried his nose into her wet hair, and took a deep breath.

“Herbal shampoo,” Ilsa continued her grand tour into the world of beauty care products.

“M-m-m, I like it!..”

She giggled when he touched that little sensitive spot behind her ear, and tried to pull away, although, without giving much effort. Ethan didn’t let her go, anyway.

“It smells so nice here!” he said with a mischievous grin and pulled the bathrobe off her shoulder. “And here, too. Did you wash these freckles well?..”

“Come on, stop it!” Ilsa slapped his lips lightly. Ethan obeyed her without another word, and stopped licking her breast. He then turned on his side, and propped his head on his hand, facing Ilsa in silence.

“Have I got something on my face? Not a word again about my freckles, or I swear to God, if I hear one more time…

“I think I can’t ever get enough of you.”

Well, of course. Only Hunt could switch from a playful and naughty altercation to a philosophical reflection in an eye blink. On top of that, he could drag her with him. But not a chance! She didn’t sign up for this!

“Take a picture,” she muttered.

Ethan snickered.

Of course, it was unreal. Compromise, and all that.

“Then draw me, I know you can. Luther spilled you used to have my portrait once,” she dimed Stickell out.

Ethan sort of shrugged favoring his bad shoulder as if saying “guilty, so what?”

“I would like to wake up like this with you for many more days in a row.”

That was a great sucker punch. Ilsa clenched her teeth and said nothing.

He kept looking at her as if she was the greatest treasure, then raised his hand and traced his fingers over her face. He touched her wide cheekbones, her straight nose, her brows. His last touch was on her lips. As if he tried to draw her within his own memory, tried to remember her forever.

“What's bothering you?”

“Nothing,” Ilsa lied. She couldn’t help but made a grimace, frustrated with herself – she wasn’t able to con the pro! She pushed him in the shoulder – the good one – made Ethan roll onto his back, and settled herself on top. She dragged the blanket with her, covered them both, and started talking very quiet. Ilsa knew for sure: Ethan could hear everything.

“When I was little, I used to play with my sisters like this. On rainy days, we would pick all pillows and blankets from the whole house, turn the chairs upside down, and build a blanket fort.”

“How many sisters do you have?”

She considered it for a second before answering the whole truth,

“Two. And an older brother.”

Ethan nodded; Ilsa took a breath and continued her story. It wasn’t so difficult, after all, to speak frankly to him. No, actually, it gave her some kind of a strange relief.

“I would crawl deep inside and sit there for hours. Sometimes, I didn't want to come out, I wished I could stay there, inside the pillow fort. It was a quiet and warm place where no one could disturb me.

She lifted her head up, looked right into Ethan’s eyes, and whispered,

“Let’s just stay here for a while? Can we ever stay?..”

Ethan watched her for a long time without saying a word. Ilsa expected him to lecture her on her silly fantasies, to bring her down to earth, but he kept stroking her wet hair in silence.

She started slowly drifting off to sleep lulled by his calm, careful motions. Ethan began talking about something but Ilsa heard only the end of the sentence,

“…and not only three times in the past six months.”

“Do you agree with me, then?” Ilsa sleepily muttered in response.

Ethan threw the blanket off and stared at her – Ilsa couldn’t see but felt his gaze targeting on her.

“You thought it was all my choice? No, nothing like that. Seems to me they are testing us.”

“Again?..” Ilsa moaned. No way, she didn’t want to wake up in this kind of reality.

“To make sure that none of us will go crazy when we’re together,” Ethan explained very seriously, and stroke her head again. Or maybe Ilsa just dreamed it all.

What mattered was that there was quiet and warm, and no one could disturb her.

***

The next time Ilsa woke up, it was the beginning of the local apocalypse. It sounded like something exploded, a fire alarm went off, and Ilsa literally sprang up in bed. She shoved her hand under the pillow and grabbed her knife, acting on pure instinct. If someone could sleep with a loaded gun under his pillow, so could she!

Without a hint of understanding what happened, Ilsa leapt to her feet, rushed into the kitchen – and immediately leaned on the wall, her whole body shook with a silent laughter. 

She saw the best field agent of the IMF jumping to-and-fro and waving the towel in front of the smoke detector. All because of the bread caught on fire in the toaster.

“That was supposed to be your breakfast in bed, but the fucking toaster rebelled against me! Good morning, by the way,” Ethan turned to Ilsa looking very embarrassed. He still waved the towel in all directions trying to get rid of the smoke.

“Did you shoot it?” Ilsa started moving again: she dropped her knife, ran to one of the windows and threw it open.

A gust of fresh, cool air blew into the room, and Ilsa took a deep breath. It smelled like first flush of grass, like river, like iron tram rails. Sometimes, it seemed to her that all the Eastern Europe smelled like this, with a touch of old stones, church incense, and vanilla. It was actually not that bad of a smell.

The fire alarm finally stopped, but for a few seconds Ethan kept glaring at the ceiling. Then he rubbed his wounded shoulder and summed up the disgraceful battle, muttering,

“Well, shit.”

“What chance do I have with my breakfast?” Ilsa examined a small assortment of groceries on the table, and grabbed a slice of cheese. Then she climbed on the stool, pulling her legs up and covering her knees with the hem of her bathrobe.

Ethan looked at her closely, from head to toe: usually, he needed only a split second to do so, but now he was in no rush. His hazel eyes glittered with amusement.

“Well…” he said slowly. “It depends on what you have to offer... in return.”

“Oh,” Ilsa sighed with a false frustration. She looked around as if searching for a valuable object. Then she shifted her gaze on herself, and shrugged. “We've got something to bargain with, agent Hunt.”

Ethan stared at her for a while, then opened his mouth to say something snarky, probably… but at that very moment, his phone made a small ‘ding’.

“Shit,” he muttered again and began reading the incoming message. Ilsa didn’t say anything because her own smartphone vibrated in the bathrobe pocket. A few seconds later, they both exchanged glances.

“Okay, what you got?” Ethan asked first.

“Street fair on the square in front of the Wawel Castle,” Ilsa shoved the phone in her pocket and grabbed another slice of cheese. “But I still have time for breakfast!”

“Me, too!” Ethan brightened up. “We’ve got a good two hours! Great! That’s awesome! I'm sure we can make it!”

They could make what? Burn more toasts? Ilsa was very doubtful about his cooking skills, but decided not to argue.

However, eventually, she had to help him save at least scrambled eggs to make it in time. To make all the things in time.

***

The Easter Fair near the Wawel Castle was loud and crowded. Ilsa bluntly refused to pretend that she and Ethan came separately, he didn’t really insist, ether. They both had their appointments at the same time and place, so why hiding?

Nothing reminded about the last night's rain: the sun was springlike, bright and warm, and Ilsa gave up, loosened her scarf and unbuttoned her jacket.

“Go stand over there; I need to take a picture of you in front of the Castle!” Ethan asked her pulling out his phone.

“I'm full of hope that you’re really sure about this,” Ilsa muttered, but obediently stroke a pose. Well, that was the way to maintain their cover, to blend in, pretending to be enthusiastic tourists just like dozens around.

Ilsa didn’t know whether Ethan really took the picture or just pretended to do so, but he looked so happy that eventually she didn’t remind him to delete all the photos. No need to spoil the fun! Besides, he was no stranger to safety measures, not a newbie.

Ilsa truly enjoyed their hike. They still had a short window before the schedule time, so they slowly walked through the riverbank, stared at the metal sculpture of the Wawel Dragon splitting fire every few minutes to children’s delight. Then Ethan muttered “I'll be right back” and quickly disappeared in the crowd, but came back almost immediately with an ice cream cone, and proudly handed it to Ilsa.

“You must be kidding me, right?” she gasped in surprise.

It was a double scoop chocolate and pistachio ice cream.

Ilsa let out a big heavy sigh.

Ethan interpreted this sigh in his own way, and really fast came up with a new idea.

“You don’t want it? I can take it if you don’t…”

Ilsa took a mouthful of ice cream and glared at Ethan. First, he got this for her and now wanted to take it away? Not a chance!

“Try me,” she grunted. “It’s my ice cream now, not yours!”

Ethan nodded looking a little bit confused. Ilsa had long started to realize that her behavior often surprised him. Well, at least in something they were even, except, of course, their long-standing bike rivalry history. She hit him, he hit her – everybody was happy. She had no desire to repeat that again.

“Don’t smile like that, I’m already beginning to wonder how you’ll make me pay,” Ethan whispered leaning to her ear.

“Hmm,” Ilsa swallowed another bite of her ice cream and shook her head. “It's actually good! I wasn't expecting that! Here, try it!” She offered him her ice cream but her move was clumsy somehow. Ethan turned too fast, and the ice cream smudged all over his nose. He cursed in a low voice; Ilsa squealed, and then covered her mouth with her hand trying not to burst out laughing. They already drew attention of a few people. She began to wipe his face but Ethan pulled away.

“I'll never buy you another food,” he managed somehow to clean the sticky and sweet smudge off his face, and then smiled at Ilsa.

“You really think I'll start crying?” Ilsa didn't want to tease him, but at some point she started licking her ice cream, not biting. “That was a stupid threat, it won’t work on me!

His smile turned into the boyish grin.

“It was worth a try, at least.”

Ilsa wished she could kiss him again, but she never got the chance. A girl of no more than 12 years old ran into them and began jabbering in broken English,

“Lottery, _Panowie!_ Prizes for all! Only today, only for you! _Pani_ must try! Pull the ticket, get a gift!”

She gave a little shake to a round glass bowl with a few rolled-up pieces of paper inside to prove her words.

“Lottery for _Pani_, only today!”

Ilsa shrugged, reached out, but the girl snatched the bowl back quickly, and demanded,

“Five _złoty_!”

Ilsa shook her head and found a few coins in her pocket. Only after that, the girl let her pull the piece of paper out, and turned to Ethan.

“Pay five _złoty_, got the lotto!”

“Come on, don’t be greedy!” Ilsa snorted and unrolled her ticket. She barely glanced at it and understood everything.

“What in the world…” Ethan said quietly, handing his money to the girl and getting a ticket in return, “I must pay even for my own rendezvous point?”

But instantly, the girl silently disappeared in the crowd.

“They’ve got business to run!” Ilsa rolled her eyes. “Just be glad it was only five _złoty!”_

She crumpled the peace of paper with coordinates and put it in her pocket for the further disposal. Ethan did the same, but took his time: he just stood there and looked around.

What was he waiting for? Here, they should part, that was clear: nothing new and everything as usual. Ilsa got a little bit mad about it: they couldn’t stall for time anymore, it was better to cut off all ties and to go their separate ways.

“I'm glad we got to see each other,” Ethan said softly and looked at her. He looked right into her eyes, and Ilsa thought that they had never been so close before. They were in the grave danger, they shared the same bed, they had sex, but reading each other's minds – that was new. And of course, he wouldn’t come away with her after this mission, and of course, Ilsa would never ask him about it. But hey, she knew for sure: they would definitely have made it. Together, they would be very happy.

“Be careful with toasters,” she raised her hand and gently touched his wounded shoulder.

“I promise,” Ethan nodded. “You, too, take care of yourself.”

Then they parted as if obeying some kind of an elusive signal.

Ilsa passed the fair and turned into the quiet alley where she left her car. The alley was almost empty except for a few rare passers-by hurrying on their way somewhere, so nobody paid much attention to Ilsa. She stopped next to the car gripping the key in her fist.

They should had said a proper goodbye not giving a damn about everyone around there; they would had been just another couple of lovers kissing in the crowd, no one would have blinked an eye at them! Maybe they would never see each other again. Maybe she would lose him, or she would die, and then the memory of this stupid going-away would stay with him forever, he would be thinking of her, and…

Then Ilsa heard his hurried steps behind her back, and the next thing she knew was Ethan pulling her into his arms, holding her tightly, and kissing her hard. _A coup de grace,_ the thought crossed her mind, but then there was nothing left but Ethan, who ran his fingers over her face, tracing her bones, and murmured,

“I can’t let you go, I can’t, I’m trying my best, but I can’t…”

Ilsa hugged him back, still silent, clinging to him as hard as she could, and squeezed her eyes shut for a second.

“I’ll see you pretty soon, okay?” Ethan cupped her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes. “I’ll finish my mission as fast as I can, you’ll deliver your antique manuscript, and then we'll meet. Where d’you want me to be, Ilsa? Just name the place and I'll be there.”

She smiled, but couldn’t utter a word because of a lump in her throat. Eventually, she managed to breathe it out, leaned over, and whispered to Ethan,

“In my pillow fort.”


End file.
